Story Time
by AntisocialMayhem
Summary: Years after the war with Voldemort, Harry is teaching at Hogwarts along with, surprise surprise, Draco Malfoy. More Summary Inside.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: ** Hello, readers. I know it's been awhile, and here I start off my new writing by introducing a character I came up with. XD Oh dear. I'm so sorry. But it's midnight, and this is the best I can do at the moment. I will tell you that this will focus on the War with Voldemort, and not merely on John, and his time at Hogwarts. So, don't worry. He's (hopefully) not another Marty Stu.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or any cast of Harry Potter. I do own John Smit-Masters, though, despite his protests. 3

**Complete Summary: **Years after the war with Voldemort, Harry is teaching at Hogwarts. Along with, surprise surprise, Draco Malfoy. The war has left more scars than just physical ones. Yet, both still hold a grudge against the other for multiple reasons. What happens with an American student transfers to Hogwarts, and starts to curiously question these two men of their experiences? Old wounds will reopen, pains will be relived, and maybe some understandings will come to light. Then again, that's simply heresay.

**Chapter One**

Crisp snow blanketed the grounds around the castle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In little isolated heaps, the snow piled onto the stone fortress, huddling together as if frightened; while inside candles warmed the interior of Hogwarts. The majority of those who lived in this school for part the better part of a year were congregating in the Great Hall, taking their seats at their designated tables. There they sat, in their little groups, as their conversations all muddled together in the huge room. Above, a faux cloudless sky twinkled on the enchanted cieling, innocently eavesdropping on the students below.

Sitting at the table lining the front of the Great Hall were the proffessors of the school. Some sat stiff, staring at the students, while the more amiable chatted with one another. Every now and then, students would glance up at the table, spotting some famous faces among those authority figures. These faces were only made famous from the fact that they had fought in the second greatest, and most recent, wizarding war the world of magic had known, though.

The current students at Hogwarts hadn't seen the war unfold at the beginning, but had seen the end and heard about the full tale from their older family members. Yet, they all could recite it, just as muggle students could recite the famous tragedies of either World War, or the massacre of Pearl Harbor.

Most well-known, though, was Harry Potter, chatting animatedly with his old friend, Hagrid. Time had changed both men. Hagrid's black, raggedy hair was speckled with grey hair, and, hidden by his massive beard, the small edges of scars from the war scattered across his face. He sat more hunched, as well, and moved a bit more slowly from arthritis. Harry, his black hair still as messy as ever, had his share of scars as well. Of course, the most well-known scar, the lightning bolt on his forhead, was faded compared to newer ones that marred his face. The most noticable injury was half of Harry's left ear was missing, a rumored battle scar left either from the Dark Lord's pet, Nagini, or from Petter Pettigrew.

It was ironic, thought some students, that the "Boy"-Who-Lived would take a job at Hogwarts that would constantly remind him of the horrors that caused those scars. That job, of course, being the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Then again, who better to teach such a class?

Another well-known survivor of the war, who still had speculative whispers uttered behind his back, was none other than Draco Malfoy. He sat silently at the table, glaring at the students with his one good eye. The other eye was clouded and blind thanks to a spell that side-swiped Draco. It was a misfire of some curse that should have killed him, yet somehow only blinded him. He didn't have as many scars as his rival did, but Professor Malfoy had his share of bad memories.

As an ironic twist, the headmistress had asked Draco Malfoy to be the Potions master, and head of Slytherin at Hogwarts. No one was quite sure why, since he had been the one to figure out a way to get the Deatheaters into Hogwarts at one point and time. Yet, Headmistress McGonagall obviously decided the young man was in need of a second chance.

McGonagall realized she had unintentionally set up a more vicious rivalry for the houses of Gryffindor and Slytherin, after realizing that once rival students were now rival Head of Houses. She assumed, though, that after the war both boys had grown out of their immaturity and could set their differences aside. However, she was soon proved wrong when both Malfoy and Potter snapped quips at each other during the first Quidditch game of their first year of teaching.

Yet, nothing of major consequence had happened between the two, save for vocal spars. It made things interesting, concluded the old woman whenever the two would fight. It also made the two men, who lost so much, feel like they were back in the 'old times', assumed McGonagall, so she let them be. There was no harm in rivalry, as long as it wasn't taken too far.

"Students," Stated the stern voice of McGonagall as she slowly stood up. Once the Great Hall quieted, which was quite quickly, she continued on, "We have a student from America who has come to join us. I know, it is not usual for us to allow transfers, yet it seems that, due to the circumstances, we decided to allow it. So, please, welcome our new sixth year student, Mr. John Smit-Masters, and help him become accostumed to this setting that is so foreign to him."

A rush of whispering had arose as soon as the word 'transfer' came up, and even more hushed conversations took place when a young man trudged into the Great Hall from a side door near the teacher's tables. He didn't have any amazing features to discern him greatly from the others. However, John did more grumpy than anxious to be at a new school.

The teachers eyed the student, either summing up the academic potential of the young wizard or, in Proffesor Malfoy's case, how to torture the young man. In fact, they were surprised themselves at the transfer student. It was few and far between whenever a transfer came to the school, and usually they left quite quickly for whatever reasons.

John could feel his ears burn in red-hot embarrassment as all the eyes in the room were turned to him. He stopped by the Headmistress, who had come around the table to greet the young man. After an exchange of handshakes, John stood idly by McGongall, looking around with an uncertain expression flickering into his eyes. He had been told he had to be sorted into one of the four Hogwarts Houses, yet he wasn't sure exactly how that happened.

"Since Mr. Smit-Masters is new here, he has yet to be sorted." Stated McGongall, her voice cutting through the students' whispers like a ship cutting through the waves. Without bothering to inform John about what else would happen, she fished into the huge sleeve of her robe. Soon, the old woman procurred a battered, pointed black hat, that looked as if it had a face from the hundred year old wrinkles in its face.

Without any ceremonious words, she plopped the hat onto the young man's head, and allowed the Sorting Hat to do its work. After a moment of waiting, John wondered what was supposed to happen. Soon, he felt like a moron, standing there with a hat on his head, waiting for some direction of what to do. The whole Hall was quiet, too, which made John a bit unsure of where he stood in the whole scheme of this antic. When he was about ready to yank the hat off, a voice echoed through his mind, "My, my, we have a yankie now, do we?"

John glanced around, looking for whoever had talked, but the rest of the Hall hadn't budged. It was almost as if they were frozen with supreme concentration. This mere fact made John's ears burn a deeper red, and his stomach churn sickly. However, after looking back and forth, John looked up, and realized it was the hat. There was no other explanation for a voice to sound so close.

Well, this was a new situation, he had to admit. A hat that spoke. He supposed he shouldn't be too amazed, though, since he had seen plenty of strange happenings. Yet, this was, by far, an intriguing, and unexpected, turn of events. Finding his voice, John muttered, "Uh, yeah?"

"Well, John, you have a fairly interesting history." Chuckled the hat in his age crusted voice. John felt the redness of his ears burn across his cheeks as he realized the hat was looking into his mind. It wasn't so much as a realization, but the fact that John was starting to feel as if he was being violated mentally. The hat continued, though, "I'm not here to discourse about your history, though. I;m here to sort you into a house you'll progress greatly in. Now, to get to work."

As the Sorting Hat mumbled to itself, sounding like a pyschiratrist with all the murmuring, John tried to remember what he had been told about the houses. Nothing came to mind, though, and John soon gave up on the venture, assuming he'd figure out the houses when need be. Rigidly, John awaited his sentencing, almost feeling like a felon awaiting his convinction. He vaguely heard a few of the teachers shift, and a distinct cough from a table with students wearing gold-and-red ties.

"Well, I believe it is blatantly obvious where to put you!" Exclaimed the Sorting Hat, grandly. This time, though, his voice echoed through the Hall, gaining the attention of those "starving" students ready to pass out. The Hat waited, puasing dramatically, before decreeing---

**End of Chapter One.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Wow, another chapter so soon. Anyone reading this is blessed! I also have a third chapter up, but I would rather make another chapter before posting the third one. Also, I do want to hear some critiques, and comments on this, so please review. XD Tell me if I'm centering it too much on John, or if he's starting to sound Marty Stu-y. Also inform me if I'm getting OOC with any of the canon character. I'd really appreciate it.

Thanks.

**Disclaimer: ** I do not own Harry Potter, or any cast of Harry Potter. I only own John Smit-Masters.

**Chapter Two **

"Well, I believe it is blatantly obvious where to put you!" Exclaimed the Sorting Hat, grandly. This time, though, his voice echoed through the Hall, gaining the attention of those "starving" students ready to pass out. The Hat waited, pausing dramatically, before it decreed, "Ravenclaw!"

John blinked, and glanced around the Great Hall, which was strangely quiet. He had no clue which table he was supposed to wander off to, and he was pretty sure everyone shouldn't still be staring at him as if he was a three-headed freakshow attraction. As soon as the information sunk in, though, a table with students that wore blue and grey ties erupted into applause and cheering. The American student stared at the table, with all the smiling faces and the loud whoops, and felt disgust at the sudden faux cheery nature knot his stomach.

At the proffessor's table, the Head of Ravenclaw clapped with the rest of the Ravenclaws, as the other three Head of Houses slightly deflated at not getting a rare transfer into their own house.

"Oh joy." Muttered John, fighting down the urge to smack his head into the nearest wall. Headmistress McGonagall plucked the Sorting Hat from his head, though, and nudged him towards the table with a stern look.

Since it didn't seem like a smart move to disobey the headmistress, John Smit-Masters trudged over to the Ravenclaw table. He forced an anxious, but falsely happy, grin to his lips, and flopped down onto a space made for him on the bench.

John didn't touch any dinner, since his nerves were too tangled for him to want to eat, but did get his full of introductions. He lost count of how many hands he shook, and how many fellow Ravenclaws introduced themselves to him. The real trick would be to remember all those names, though.

The rest of the night had gone by without anything of interest happening. At least, not for John. He followed the rest of the Ravenclaws to the Ravenclaw tower, and was shown the common rooms. Apparently, someone had moved an extra bed into the sixth-year dorms, and he didn't have to worry about sleeping on the floor. Some of the wizards who grew up without any muggle inventions marveled at John's rolling suitcases, since the young man hadn't realized he was suppose to use a trunk.

Eventually, everyone departed to their beds after sharing advice with John on certain professors. John, however, stayed in the Common Room, flipping through a few of the textbooks. His nerves were still acting up, and he just felt he couldn't sleep, despite the fact it was the best option.

Meanwhile, the halls of Hogwarts were dark, with only the flicker of illuminating spells as proffesors meandered in the darkness. Some patrolled the hallways, others were merely making their way back from their office to bed, after spending a good time grading their student's papers. A few of the paintings snored, while others gossiped in hushed tones. Every now and then, a sleep-floating ghost would pass by, unaware of its journey while it slept.

Through the paintings, though, a pair of children ran; they ran from frame to frame until it came onto a congregations of fellow painted people. As they panted, and hopped from foot to foot anxiously, they were able to whisper in excited tones, "They're coming!"

"Oh dear." Murmured the mother of the two, as she glanced down each side of the hallway. At one end, a red shimmer illuminated the darkness, and at the other a green spark from another wand lit up the area slightly. Both were bound to intercept one another midway down the hall.

As the two points of light drew nearer to each other, a few of the painted people departed to their houses, while others stayed to watch. A few even decided to make a show of what was to happen, and munched on grapes as they waited for the entertainment to start. Moments passed, and the air in the hallway started to fill with tension as the two lights drew nearer. Soon, both wizards came into sight of each other, both wreathed in the light of their own wands.

They halted a foot from each other, merely glaring at each other in a way both had mastered from years of experience. Slight memories wavered through both minds; from their first meeting in a robe shop to their last showdown at Hogwarts before meeting again during the War. Finally, one of them spoke with obvious disdain glowering in his voice, "Evening, Potter."

"Evening, Malfoy." nodded the other professor, in forced civility. Although, all civility was banished as Proffessor Potter added, "I thought you'd be in your dungeon, mapping out new ways to torture my students."

"What you call torture, I call teaching." Sneered Proffesor Malfoy, contemptuously, "Of course, what would you know about actual teaching, Potter? You allow your students to wander around the grounds during your class."

The paintings that were watching the fight started to usher the children into the homes, or away from this particular area. Despite the children protesting, the older paintings thought it was best for them not to watch this argument lest it be the final one between these lifelong rivals. No point in getting bloody stains on young paintings.

"That was one time, Malfoy! And you know full well that it was only because the creature we were working with escaped through a window!" Snapped Professor Potter, flushing as the memories of explaining that fiasco to McGonagall resurfaced.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, letting his sneer evolve into smirk of superiority, "Yes, and who's fault was it for not closing the window? Hm, _proffesor_?"

This time, it was Potter's turn to bristle at a comment made at his method of teaching. He remained silent, though, having had that same question posed at him by himself many times. Anger was seeping into his thoughts, though, as his rival picked at a one time accident that he had already reprimanded himself on.

"You've made just as many mistakes as I have, if not more." Retorted Potter, clenching his fists as he glared at Malfoy. The smirk on the blonde's lips faded, and a flicker of all the wrong choices he had made in the past slid across his thoughts. Choosing one of the more recent mistakes, though, Potter added, "What about when you blew up the whole dungeon when teaching the students how to make a love potion? Do I _have _to remind you of how that affected all your students?"

The Potions professor winced at the memory of that particular memory. McGonagall had unleashed a very powerful edict that he wasn't allowed to teach students those sort of potions anymore until he had mastered them himself. Although Malfoy was particulary talented in the area of brewing and concocting potions, the ones that dealt with fuzzy feelings, infatuation, and "love" were a massive weak point of his. He couldn't hold it against the old bat for getting furious, though; not with how promiscuous the students became that year.

"Minor miscalculation in the competence of my students." replied Malfoy, smoothly and icily. However, unable to hide his embarassment, the proffesor turned on his heel and started to stalk away from Proffesor Potter. The Defense Against the Dark Arts proffesor scoffed, and grin to himself, feeling he had weakly won this round. When Malfoy had disappeared into the darkneness, only the green glow of his wand informing Potter of where he was, did Potter turn around and take his patrol down a different hallway.

When both teachers were out of earshot, the paintings sighed in relief. The first time such an encounter happened in the halls of Hogwarts, a few of the paintings had to be taken down and shipped to Mungo's for some special treatment. Like always, though, the headmistress was there to smack the two young proffesors around, and tell them of the consequences that would follow should they use such spells on Hogwarts grounds again.

Since then, neither Malfoy nor Potter had the gall to fight with spells, but merely with words. Yet, with those two, even their verbal arguements were a competition to see who could best the other with nsults. It was only a matter of time until the soreness of losing started to affect one of the two, and when that moment came a short-fuse to a deadly spell would go off.

Sometimes, the paintings wondered if they hadn't preferred the spells.

**End of Chapter Two**


	3. Chapter 3

I haven't written any new chapters. I've been meaning to load this one up for awhile. So, I'm sorry if anyone was waiting for it for a long amount of time! T-T It's not the greateast. I need to get back into my Harry Potter muse. So, don't expect many more chapters for awhile...sorry, again.

Disclaimer: I own not Harry Potter, or anything affiliated to Harry Potter. I only own John Smit-Masters.

**Chapter Three**

When both teachers were out of earshot, the paintings sighed in relief. The first time such an encounter happened in the halls of Hogwarts, a few of the paintings had to be taken down and shipped to Mungo's for some special treatment. Like always, though, the headmistress was there to smack the two young proffesors around, and tell them of the consequences that would follow should they use such spells on Hogwarts grounds again. Since then, neither Malfoy nor Potter had the gall to fight with spells, but merely with words. Yet, with those two, even their verbal arguements were a competition to see who could best the other with insults.

Sometimes, the paintings wondered if they hadn't preferred the spells.

Back in the Ravenclaw common room, though, John had made a friend. The creature had come to the common room to pick up the crumpled up essays, and left over candy wrappers that some of the messier Ravenclaws had forgotten to throw away.

After the initial fright of being discovered cleaning, and after calming down enough to introduce itself, John started to help the house elf with its nightly chore. It wasn't as if he liked to clean, he liked to learn about people, and he found it more comfortable to be doing something with them instead of just sitting and staring at them. An interesting conversation had begun between the two of them, though, and John couldn't help but give his advice to the female house elf, "If you like this other house elf -- Bobby?"

"Dobby." corrected Miff, as she stacked the firewood in a more orderly fashion.

"If you like Dobby, why not just tell him?" replied John, stacking some textbooks left lying around onto a table. He was amused that he was actually giving relationship advice to an elf, let alone a female one.

Miff was quiet for a moment, as she concentrated on screwing caps back onto inkwells. John waited with itching curiousity, knowing it was best not to rush her for an answer. Once she felt comfortable, she responded, "It's just, well, he's a hero, really. At least, among the house elves. He has many admirers, and has his pick to any of the other house elves. I-I-I just don't think he'd like me in that way."

"How is he a hero?" inquired John, trying to shake the images of heroic house elves out of his head. What could Dobby have done, truly, to give him the status of hero? Stopped a kitchen fire? Got rid of a cat with magical rabies? What?

The female house elf turned her large blue eyes up to John, amazed and awed that he wouldn't know. The young man raised an eyebrow, silently inquring what she was gawking at. Apparently, he should know something. Miff gasped, "You don't know that Dobby has done many wonderful things? He helped Harry Potter defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! He led an army of courageous house elves into battle, and even had free house elves act as double agents in the Dark Lord's headquarters!"

John paused in his work to plump up the pillows to look over at Miff as she ogled Dobby's achievments. He hid his laughter as he imagined a house elf charging into battle, and instantly felt bad for the reaction trying to fall from his lips. House elves were allowed to have their heroes, as well, and it wasn't right to laugh at what they found to be awe-striking.

"Well, I think," started John, after a moment of pondered thought, "The only way for you to find out if Dobby will like you back, is to ask. As long as you truly like him for himself, and not for what he has accomplished."

Taking a glance around the room, John found everything straightened up and clean. A slight thought wandered into his mind, and John turned to Miff, who was just about to leave the common room. Coming up behind her, and taking the bag of trash she was trying to drag behind her, John followed the house elf from the room before asking, "Why are you the only house elf cleaning up the Ravenclaw area? Must be hard by yourself."

Miff looked up at him, after climbing out into the hallway outside the Ravenclaw common room. She looked hesitant to answer, for a moment, but ended up answering, "Ravenclaws aren't near as messy as Gryffindors or Slytherins. The headmistress also has some of us keep an eye on certain proffesors who are prone to arguments while on patrol."

"I see." Replied, John, a slight grin to crossed over his lips. He had heard stories of those teachers from the Ravenclaws, not to mention stories of the two men before they had took up teaching as an occupation from wizarding news articles. Absentmindedly, he drew his wand from the back pocket of his jeans, and cast a spell to make the bag of trash lighter. As John handed the bag back to Miff, who thanked him meekly, he said, "Well, good luck with Dobby, Miff. I'll look forward to talking with you, again."

Miff nodded, and scuttled off, leaving John to close the door behind her. After doing so, he wandered across the common room, heading towards the stairs that would lead up to his dormitory. All the while, he briefly wondered if Miff would actually confess her feelings for this Dobby character. Yet, his thoughts soon shifted to the new day that was fast approaching.

A new day which would prove to be informative, and perhaps a bit amusing. He would finally get to meet the once proclaimed "Boy"-Who-Lived who had defeated Voldemort, and an ex-Deatheater who helped his rival destroy the Dark Lord. John knew it would be impolite to ask the two of their experiences, but he was itching to get to the bottom of their histories. They were curiously interesting people, and they had chosen to become professors to teach. The two of them had first-hand experiences in the War, and would no doubt have interesting stories about what led up to the final deciding battle.

The two seemed similar to John, and a few other students thought the same. It seemed a shame that there were hostilities between the two that kept them from befriending one another. Then again, John surmised that there had to be more there than a simple rivalry, or dislike of each other. He was prone to being too analytical of people, though, and figured that the rivalry could be as simple as a major dislike of the each other.

"Maybe I will find something that neither noticed, though." murmured John to himself as he pulled the curtain of privacy around his bed. Silently, he stripped off his clothes from that day, and donned some pajamas, before climbing into the bed. His mind continued to trek aimlessly on the account of Proffesor Malfoy, and Proffesor Potter, even though John knew little about the men's personalities. As he rolled onto his side, and curled up into a ball, John figured he would find out enough tomorrow.

Moments later, the curtain was pulled across its railing, accompanied by the grating of metal on meta. Bright sun harrassed John into rolling out of bed. Of course, a group of fellow sixth-years that tipped his mattress also helped the cause.

**End of Chapter Three**


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